


good a place to fall as any (already on my knees)

by extasiswings



Series: enemies of time [5]
Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 00:59:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10060538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: "As it happens, the Rittenhouse contingent attempting to rig the election of 1948 isn’t comprised of the best and brightest the organization has to offer. So, it doesn’t exactly take a miracle for Wyatt and Lucy to dispatch them. For which she’s grateful because her head...isn’t exactly in the game."Or: Lucy has a Problem.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [qqueenofhades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qqueenofhades/gifts).



> So, this is...yeah. Lucy's dress is a Charles James evening gown in black silk satin and black silk velvet, circa 1948. It's stunning and also has significantly less back than one might otherwise expect from a 40s dress.

Lucy has a Problem. 

By all rights, she really shouldn’t. She’s a grown woman and she is fully capable of controlling herself and her faculties. 

Except that she isn’t. Because Flynn hasn’t shaved in three days and it’s wreaking havoc on her ability to think straight.

(The fact that they haven’t managed to be alone at all during those same three days may admittedly be a contributing factor to her current preoccupation, but the point still stands. Grown woman. Responsible adult. She should be able to think about things other than his mouth)

(She can’t)

“—think whatever they wanted, they probably already have it. Lucy?”

She starts, dragging her eyes away from Flynn’s jawline to refocus on Wyatt. “I—,” She clears her throat when her voice cracks and tries to remember what they’d been talking about, “—sorry, uh, I think we should still go to the benefit tonight. If Rittenhouse doesn’t leave before then, they’ll be there.”

He sighs and checks his watch. “Okay. I’ll meet you back out here in an hour then?”

“Yeah, that should be fine.”

Across the room, Flynn runs his hand over his jaw in the middle of a conversation with Rufus and Lucy bites her tongue. _Goddammit. Focus._

A little bit less than an hour later, the knock at her door comes right after she’s pulled on her dress. “I’m almost done, Wyatt, just a minute.”

“It’s me,” Flynn replies, stepping into the room as Lucy struggles to fasten the clasp at the back of her dress. It shows a lot more skin than she usually expects from 40s evening wear, but she can’t deny it has its benefits. 

_Case in point_ , she thinks as Flynn gently bats her hands out of the way and fastens the clasp for her. It would be entirely innocent if not for the way his fingers skim the exposed line of her spine just afterwards. 

“I like this,” he acknowledges, eyes meeting Lucy’s in the mirror. He’s warm at her back and the deliberate way his fingers trace the edges of her straps makes her bite her lip. “Daring. It suits you.”

“I thought you might,” Lucy says, suppressing a shiver when Flynn sets his lips to her neck. She really should grab her shoes and go meet Wyatt. At the very least, she should push him away before he leaves marks on her skin that her old-school makeup won’t cover as easily. 

(She really doesn’t want to though, especially when his hands move to her hips, slipping over the layers of black silk that make up her skirt)

“Are you sure I can’t go with you?” Flynn’s voice is like smoke—dark and curling and consuming—and if Lucy hadn’t been distracted before, she definitely is now. “I’m sure I could find a way to be helpful.”

(Her breath hitches when his arm curves around her waist, hand splaying wide over her abdomen. That...would be a very bad idea. Very bad indeed)

“Wyatt and I will be fine,” she manages to say. “You should stay. Watch the Lifeboat with Rufus just in case.”

Flynn hums and his cheek rasps over her skin, setting her nerves alight. “If you’re sure.”

“I—”

“Lucy?” This time the knock actually is Wyatt and Lucy swallows hard, smoothing her dress as Flynn takes a step back. It’s genuinely maddening the way he’s able to slip into a casual mask of _Nothing Going on Here, No._ “You ready?”

She grabs her wrap and shoes and ignores her racing pulse. “Yes. Definitely. All good.”

 _Later_ , she thinks as she glances back at Flynn. 

As it happens, the Rittenhouse contingent attempting to rig the election of 1948 isn’t comprised of the best and brightest the organization has to offer. So, it doesn’t exactly take a miracle for Wyatt and Lucy to dispatch them. For which she’s grateful because her head...isn’t exactly in the game.

(It’s a problem)

Lucy doesn’t bother changing back into normal clothes before the trip home in the Lifeboat. She’s too keyed up to want to waste the time, more ready than she’s ever been to return to the present. Flynn is the first one out once they land, but she catches up with him at the foot of the basement stairs, waiting until there’s a respectable distance between them and the other two men before speaking. 

“Are you coming to bed?” Lucy manages to keep the question light, casual, blessedly keeping the need she feels out of her voice. Not that she would mind if he came to her room just to sleep, but, well...the Problem. 

Flynn’s eyes cut over to hers and he nods. “I’ll be a minute though. I want to get rid of this first,” he says, running a hand over his jaw. 

“You could leave it.” It slips out before she can stop it, and she closes her eyes for a moment and swears internally. When she opens them again, Flynn has an eyebrow quirked. “I mean, I...wouldn’t mind. If you left it.” 

“Is that so?” His lips curve into a _devastating_ smirk and Lucy immediately regrets her choices.

(Not really. Definitely not, because Flynn’s eyes sweep over her as he wets his lips and that’s a look that promises really excellent things to come)

She pauses and steps close, reaching up on the pretense of straightening his tie but really just wanting an excuse to touch him. “Take me to bed and you’ll find out.” 

“Well then…”

Getting to her—their, really—bedroom is an exercise in self-control. Lucy walks in front of him and she’s tempted at every moment to stop in her tracks, to let him run into her, to turn her around and kiss her. Once they’re inside, she does just that—Flynn crowds her against the door and kisses her hard for a long moment before turning her to face the wall. 

“Do you trust me?” He murmurs against her skin.

“You know I do,” Lucy replies, letting her head fall back against his chest. His hands are back on her hips and the touch practically burns through her clothes. 

“Put your hands on the wall and leave them there.” 

A deft flick of his fingers unhooks the flimsy clasp of her dress, and then his hands are sliding beneath the fabric. They skim over her ribs, teasing the sides of her breasts, with barely-there touches that make her want to cover his hands with her own and make them shift down, lower, down to where she’s slick and hot and wanting, but—

(—but she trusts him to take care of her, even if that means she gets driven a little out of her senses first, so she leaves her hands on the wall) 

“You could always take the dress off, you know,” she points out, biting off a moan when he gives in and takes one of her breasts fully in hand. 

“I could,” Flynn acknowledges, punctuating the statement with a sharp nip at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. _But I won’t_ , goes unsaid. 

He withdraws his hands far too soon, sinking to his knees and setting his mouth to her spine instead. At first there’s nothing but soft kisses, but he follows them with a hot swipe of his tongue that makes her toes curl. Once it seems as though he’s covered every inch of exposed skin, his hands slide under her skirt, and he lifts her up with him once he has a solid grip on her hips.

“Flynn—” The dress really is more of a hindrance than anything in this case, lovely as it is, but Flynn still doesn’t move to take it off. Instead, he offers Lucy another smirk as he sets her down on the edge of the bed before pushing her skirt up around her waist. Her underwear is easily disposed of, although he takes his time about it—his fingers hook into the fabric and pull it down, but his path back up to her center is slow—fingers skim up her calves, his mouth finds a spot on the inside of her knee...it’s maddening. 

Lucy closes her eyes as his fingers dance over her thighs, as he presses kisses everywhere except where she wants him most. 

(Her thighs are going to have terrible stubble burn, she realizes. But she can’t bring herself to care when every brush against her sensitive skin makes her feel like she might combust)

When he finally flicks his tongue over her, curls it around her clit while two of his fingers find her entrance and slip inside, she nearly sobs from the relief of it. He takes her right to the edge, curving his fingers, pressing up to find the spot that never fails to make her gasp, and the moment she gets there...he stops.

(She almost screams)

“Garcia, _please_ ,” Lucy pants, one hand curling into the sheets below her, the other into his hair.

Flynn laughs, his breath hot against her thigh. “Patience is a virtue, Lucy.”

“ _Fuck_ virtue.”

The response is a slow drag of teeth over her inner thigh that sends a hot bolt of pleasure through her. When Flynn glances up at her, mouth wet and eyes dark, he shoots back, “I’d rather fuck _you_.”

The suggestion hits her like a physical blow, stealing her breath, and her hips shift involuntarily. _God, yes. Please_. 

“Then get up here and do it,” Lucy replies, tugging at his hair. He hums and twists his fingers inside her—he’s definitely enjoying this, the bastard—and she swears.

“In a minute,” Flynn answers.

“ _Garcia_ —”

Whatever she’d been planning on saying next—probably something about him being a goddamn tease—vanishes when his thumb shifts up to her clit, followed soon after by his tongue. This time he doesn’t stop—drawing one of her legs up onto his shoulder so he has better access, he works her over until she cries out, stars bursting behind her eyes as she comes.

“You’re an ass,” Lucy says once she’s coherent enough to string together a sentence.

Flynn smirks and when she pulls at his hair again he actually goes with it. She tastes herself on his lips, his tongue, shivers when he turns to her neck again and the scrape of facial hair sends aftershocks sparking through her. 

“You told me to take you to bed,” he replies. “You didn’t say how expeditiously that needed to happen.”

“It was implied.” Lucy pushes at Flynn’s shoulders to switch their positions and he pulls her over him without a pause. His hands settle on her hips as she straddles him—her own smooth over his chest and she shakes her head.

“You’re still dressed,” she notes, fingering one of the buttons on his shirt. Despite still being sensitive, she can’t resist rocking her hips against his, can’t resist hearing his breath catch or the way his grip tightens almost too much. She’s wanted him for days and now she has him, pinned underneath her, exactly where he should be. 

“Then do something about it,” Flynn goads. Lucy grinds harder against him in retribution and grins when he bites off a curse in what she’s pretty sure is Russian.

“So it’s my turn now?”

“It was implied,” he parrots. Lucy laughs, then sways forward and catches his mouth. She doesn’t bother with his shirt—after all, she’s still in her dress. Instead, her hands slide down to his belt as she kisses him, undoing it deftly. 

(She could tease him—draw things out, get revenge—he may even be expecting it. But when it comes down to it, once she gets him in her hand she just _wants_ )

Flynn bites her lip when she sinks down on him, and Lucy keens. She settles her hands back on his chest, rolls her hips once, twice, seeking out a rhythm—then she gives up on trying to do more than necessary and catches his earlobe between her teeth.

“You wanted to fuck me?” She breathes. Flynn’s hands flex on her hips and he swallows hard. “Then fuck me.” 

And oh, God, how he does. More often than not lately when they’ve been together like this it’s been slow, tender, quietly intimate. This is hard and fast, thrusts just on the right side of rough, and it’s exactly what she needed. On one particularly deep stroke, her nails bite into his shoulders—he starts to lose rhythm after that, but he brings a hand between them to work her clit until she follows him over the edge. 

It takes a while for Lucy to get her breath back, even longer for her to want to shift off of Flynn. For his part, Flynn doesn’t seem terribly inclined to move either, having released her hips only to move his hands to her waist, her back—anywhere he can caress. 

“You do like the dress,” she teases.

“About as much as you like my face,” he replies.

“You can shave tomorrow.”

“Thank God.”

**Author's Note:**

> I give up.


End file.
